The Unholy Family
by Charmtion
Summary: "Rome is the peak of the world, and we are at its pinnacle."
1. Beginnings

Ж

A sudden shaft of soft sunlight falls onto his face, the shadows playing on his brow as he frowns, as he half-opens his eyes and squints through the dawn invading his bedchamber and runs a hand down his face. He rolls onto his back, his arms stretched up above him, his fingers reaching for the red-gold canopy of the bed, when he hears a murmur from beside him. His eyes fall on her. A sweet face, really, when it is quiet in sleep, framed with unruly black ringlets; but a mouth as wide and gushing as the Tiber. Come the eve, half of Rome will know who she slept with this night. He groans silently, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his fingers, and jars to his feet, slipping from the warmth of covers reeking of perfume, sex and sweat.

_Too much wine_, he thinks dimly as he staggers a little. He pulls on his linen shift, and begins to button the heavy black robe above it, the small buttons inlaid with ruby so to match the scarlet trim. A touch of decadence even his mentors cannot object to. With half the buttons done, that murmur behind him rises again.

"You're a priest?" squeaks the girl with black ringlets.

He keeps his back to her, so to hide his smile, and pulls the crucifix strung about his neck out from the cover of his shift. "You did not notice last night?" His tone is light, almost concerned, but his eyes are gleaming.

"I – you . . . you did not have your robes on last night."

He closes his eyes at that, picturing her scarlet blush, and almost laughs at her stupidity. But he does not, instead he adjusts the cross so it lays flat on his chest.

"By day I am a cleric," he declares. "By night I am who I want to be."

As he goes to finish his buttoning, there is a sudden rap against the window. He spins sharply, and hears the distant sweet sound of his sister's giggle. The girl in his bed has pulled the sheets up to hide her breasts, her face an amusing mask of shock. He makes a bow to her, before pounding from the room, emerging barefoot and half-dressed with his robes flapping at his legs into the courtyard.

"Lucrezia!" he shouts, his voice and smile of delight and laughter. He surveys the courtyard, but sees no trace of his sister. "Sister!"

"I spied a woman in your chambers!" comes her young, honeyed voice, and all at once she emerges from behind one of the many slim marble columns flanking the courtyard. She is the picture of elegance this morning, dressed in a soft gown the colour of cream, pearls and gold at her throat, ears, and wrists, and her golden hair streaming down her back in a perfumed wave. "_Another_ one!" she adds, and skips deftly from column to column, her eyes bright and mischievous as she regards him where he stands tense and ready to pounce from the centre of the courtyard, his bare feet among the rosebeds, his smile easy.

"There is a punishment for spying," he says, his tone deceptively soft, and their eyes meet, and after a moment both laugh in unison. He creeps toward her, but she ducks away and runs to another column, with him in hot pursuit.

"And what's that?" she cries.

"Oh, I think you know . . . " he replies, and she shrieks in delight as he chases her. She runs from him on slippered feet made of air, and spins from the columns of the portico to the soft lawns lining the courtyard in neat squares between the flowerbeds. Her skirts fly behind her, and he grabs at them. She twists and runs and skips, deft and light as a doe, but finally he catches her waist and pushes her to the grass, landing on his elbows atop her, and smiling as she laughs up into his face.

"Can I come to your wedding?" she teases, her cheeks rosy and bright with mirth. His too, as he thinks of the black-haired girl in a wedding gown of ivory lace. _A whore in virgin's whites_, he muses.

"I'll never have a wedding, you know that," he says, as he has a thousand times before on mornings such as this when he wakes to find his sister in the courtyard after he's spent his seed within some pretty, noble whore.

She traces the light black beard on his chin as he speaks, her fingers gentle as whispering, and more delicate than any morning dew.

"No," she says, her shell-pink mouth curved into a soft-lipped smile. "You are betrothed to God." She sees his sad smile at that and narrows her blue eyes a little at him. His left hand strokes her ear, before threading into her golden curls, his thumb alone upon her cheek. "Don't you love God, Cesare?"

He dips his head at that, and brushes his nose against hers. "More than I love you," he murmurs, and they both smile again, fuller this time, as her fingers continue their gentle stroking of his chin, and his thumb rubs softly against her cheek. Her eyes seek his, always, and she sees that sadness reappear in his now.

"Don't be sad, brother," she whispers. He leans up on his elbow now and she rises up onto hers too, and her hand moves to his chest, picking at the ruby buttons of his cleric's robes. "Maybe Papa will become Pope . . . and then you can be who you want to be." Her eyes search his face.

"If he does become Pope, I'll be what _he_ wants me to be," replies Cesare, watching her as her gaze flickers up and down his face, hurriedly, and he knows that something worries her. He touches a finger to her throat in question.

"Can the Pope have children, Cesare?" she asks, after a moment, her fingers cupping his chin. She looks so worried that for a moment he wants to weep for her.

"I've heard it rumoured that Pope Innocent has twelve." He bumps his nose against hers, and they share a smile.

"But I have also heard it rumoured that he is dying," she murmurs.

At that he stops his smile, and frowns a little. "No news on that," he replies, his voice a sigh. "He's been dying for weeks now."

"_If_ he does die . . . will our father wear his crown?"

She has the excited look of a little girl then, he notes with affection. He reaches round and cups her cheek with his hand.

"The new pope will be elected by the College of Cardinals, my love," he explains. "And only God can predict the outcome."

"Well, since _you_ will have no wedding, I will pray to God to choose Papa as pope," she decides, and lays back on the grass, her head tipped back, her golden hair spilling down over her neck and grazing her breasts. "I want to wear a beautiful white veil," she says, as he lays down beside her, their heads tilted toward each other. "And a crown of pearls for his coronation."

He gives a soft laugh, that deep rumble that starts in his chest, a velvet sound he uses only in front of her, and their mother. "God may need some help then."

Ж


	2. Secrets

Ж

"Lucrezia." Her voice is measured and quiet, her hand slow as she picks up the ivory comb laced with mahogany from the table. "Lucrezia Borgia."

Lucrezia continues to study her mother in the looking-glass, and finds herself as always drawn into those deep brown eyes, almost black in the shadows of the candleflame, bottomless, terrifying in certain lights, as they are tonight. But it is not terror that lights them, Lucrezia soon sees, it is fascination, awe, delight. Vannozza of the House of Candia, her noble mother, her father's retired mistress. A woman of grace and strength, and a fabled beauty even now. In her youth she was adored by many, and in her age she lives quietly in her villa in the hills beyond Rome, where the city is a speck in the distance, and the stench of it is a faint memory. Like all her mother owns or wears, the villa is well-chosen: quiet, secluded, and beautiful, made of yellow stone and marble, with a stream that runs beneath the house and through the courtyard, spouting into a fountain near the entrance, lemon trees in the gardens, an orchard, an olive grove, and always the sound of birds.

Her mother's hands are gentle as they comb through her heavy golden locks.

"Such hair," breathes Vannozza from behind her, fanning it out and gathering the tresses up in the bone-white comb. "Your father was fascinated by your hair the day you were born. There you were in your cradle, pale and placid, with those beguiling blue eyes and a crown of gold curls." The smile that wrinkles her eyes is deep and heartfelt and Lucrezia smiles too. "Juan, too, he never cared for babes, but he was captured. And Cesare, my dear sweet Cesare, he loved you most of all." The comb passes easily through the golden curls. "He loves you still the most, I can tell. Juan . . . Juan will battle any foe you come against, rushing in with sword raised and hurling curses." She closes her eyes a moment, her smile smaller now. "He is a brave man, Lucrezia, but being brave is not the same as having courage. He fears nothing, but when you fear nothing, you are afraid of anything." Her eyes open. "Cesare is clever, and full of courage too. He will do anything for his Borgia blood once he has thought about it a while. And he'll hear your heartaches, my sweetling, and nurse your weary mind. He'll be there for you in your dreams, and look before _and_after you, for all his days."

"I do not need Cesare to be my champion," murmurs Lucrezia, meeting her mother's steady black gaze in the mirror. "Nor Juan, nor Papa. I am my own champion, my own lady, my own sword, and shield." She says it without pause, her tone confident, but her eyes are that of a little girl and her mother sees through them, right into the doubts of her mind. She watches as Vannozza purses her lips, and soon joins her on the lace-draped chair facing the looking-glass. Her mother rests her head on Lucrezia's shoulder, and the two study each other's reflection.

"I have kept you here all your youth," says her mother. "Kept you hidden and safe from prying eyes and salacious tongues, and let you grow up sweet and pure and unspoilt within my villa. I have watched you play in the courtyard and paddle your dainty feet in the stream, and seen you raise flowers to your nose and smell them, and noted that pretty little smile that follows such a scent." Her mother's own mouth curves now, but her black eyes are shadows once more. "Your father protests, he has done for years, and makes me drag you off to some masque every now and then, for appearances' sake, but other than that I have kept you here, and whole, and good, and safe. My precious daughter, my golden Crezia." She kisses her daughter's smooth shoulder swiftly. "But if your papa becomes pope . . . everything will change. You'll live with him, and your brothers, and his new mistress. Oh, you'll visit me once a fortnight, mayhaps, but that court will suck you up and make you a stranger . . . _if_ you let it."

"What must I do?" Her voice is a whisper.

She sees relief in Vannozza's eyes, and feels her mother's hands press warm against her arms. "You must let Cesare watch over you," she replies after only a pause. "And Juan and your father . . . Giulia, too." Her eyes flash a little at the mention of the new mistress's name. "They are experienced players – you are a maid of thirteen." She kisses her again. "Dress well, and speak well, flirt and laugh and dance, but guard your secrets, my heart, guard them well. Any passing word you hear – do not disregard it, keep it, tell it to your brothers. We are a family, together we have strength, apart we are nothing. Remember that."

For a moment, Lucrezia is silent, and her eyes leave Vannozza's in the mirror to stare down at her hands. The girl's hands are small and slender, pale and soft, fingers ringed occasionally with gold and pearls. She looks up again, her eyes blue worried pools in the dim candlelight, but never more beautiful.

"I have no secrets, Mother," she says at last, her voice a cracked whisper.

"Oh, my heart," whispers her mother in reply, catching her daughter's chin and turning her head to expose the smooth, unblemished curve of her throat. "This throat, these lips, those eyes . . . they will buy you all the secrets you and your family will ever need, Lucrezia Borgia."

Ж


	3. A Corrupted Soul

Ж

Cooing as they peck, the doves attack his fingers, hoping for corn. He swats two or three away and gently seizes one, lifting it from the cote and closing the latticed door. It is a large creature, not so plump as its fellows, pure white with speckled grey stalks of legs running to its talons. It chortles uncertainly as he flicks at its talons, and begins to secure the rolled paper to it.

"Why the dove, Cesare?"

He knows the voice in an instant, a heartbeat, before the first word has been spoken. He turns only slightly to regard his sister, golden and glowing in her honey-coloured silks. Making ready his smile, he notices her face for once does not grace one, and so his lips drop too, and he regards warily the petulant sheen of her blue eyes.

"It has a duel purpose, my love," he says, with a wary tone to match his eyes. "Like many things in life." He tightens the scroll about the dove's clawed foot. "It serves as both a symbol and a messenger."

"A symbol of what?" she asks in a voice to match his own.

"The uncorrupted soul." He meets her stare now.

"And a messenger of what?" she asks, her tone suggesting she would like to know entirely what he is about. _I was right to be wary_, he muses, _she is yet half a woman, but still a Borgia_.

He flicks the dove's talon. "Corruption."

"You mean to say," she begins slowly, "it bears news of how many votes we must buy in the papal election?"

His lips break into a smile at her sly grin.

"You are criminally well-informed, sis," he says, raising an eyebrow to her. "I trust your soul is still the purest white?"

"How many votes must we buy him, Cesare?" She makes her way up the steps to the dovecote now, her skirts rustling as she moves, and she leans toward him as they speak in whispers in the privacy of their mother's courtyard.

He considers her face for a moment, eyes narrowed above his smile, before he takes a step down onto the lawn. "You know too much already, don't you?"

"You're wrong," she protests sweetly. "I know too little."

He throws the bird upward into the air so suddenly Lucrezia gasps. The dove flaps its wings frantically, and is soon roaring on its way to Rome.

"Cesare – "

He lays his fingers to her lips. "You know too much."

"One day I'll be better informed than you or Papa or Juan, you wait," she says, muffled beneath his hand. "These lips will buy me many secrets."

At that he suddenly blanches and his hand moves swiftly to lock about her chin, angling her face up to his.

"Who told you that?" he demands, anger misting his breath.

She looks up at him, startled, her blue eyes wide, and her pink lips tremulous in the heat of his glare, but he does not let up his grip. Her silence seems to make him angrier, and his hold tightens a fraction.

"That talk will earn you the nickname of _whore _at court, Lucrezia," he says, forcefully. "I will not have my little sister playing at harlot's tricks to help her Borgia blood." He lets up his grip slightly. "Tell me, who said this to you?"

"I guard my secrets well, dear brother," she says, and quick as a snake she bends down and bites hard into his palm. He yelps and moves backward, and she springs away from him, laughing, trailing her skirts about the courtyard as she runs from him. He laughs and rushes after her, and it happens as it did that morning a week ago. They lie together in the grass until the sun sinks low in the sky and tinges all in its red-gold glow. He traces her jaw.

"I am sorry for those," he whispers, touching lightly the red marks his rings and fingers left on her soft pale skin.

She takes his hand and kisses his palm, her lips brushing over the mark her teeth made beneath his fingers. "And I for this."

Her body is lithe and warm beneath his, and his elbows rest between her arms and her waist, her hands raised and busy curling in his unruly dark hair. He stares down at her, and takes in all her innocence and beauty, and feels his heart sink a little to think that he must share it.

"What you said earlier – " he begins, but falters and stops. Her eyes are on his still, gently searching, and she winds his hair about her fingers, obsidian strands to streak amongst her golden rings. When still he does not speak, she tilts her head to the left slightly in that beloved way.

"What I said?" she prompts.

He slips his hand onto her cheek and smoothes it down into her hair, his thumb caressing the shell of her ear.

"It's true," he whispers. "Secrets _are_ the coin of the court. But – I . . . hearts may yet be broken, Lucrezia." He grips her head fiercely now, and rests his forehead to her own. "But not yours."

"Cesare – " she starts, but he stops her.

"You are my little sister, Crezia," he murmurs, his eyes bright with love for her. "My little golden sister." He raises his face and presses a kiss between her brows. "If anything happened to you – " He does not finish; the fear in his eyes is enough.

"We are family," she whispers in reply, her small hands framing his face as she pushes back the dark curls of his hair. "It is a dangerous Rome we travel to, I know that, I am not the country girl you all think me to be . . . but I trust you, Cesare, and love you more than I could ever love another man." She kisses his nose, and his dark eyes watch her eyelids as they flutter closed. "I know you will do anything to keep me safe, you will protect me, and I will love you. Brother and sister, as we always have been, together, just us in this great wide world; only our smiles are true in that court of lust and filth, and our words are the only ones that carry weight, we are all that is _real_ to each other, I know that as well as you, my dear brother, and I will not sell my kisses to anyone, Cesare, _you_ know that, I will keep my heart true."

Ж


	4. The Papal Crown

Ж

1492

The crown glitters in the light of a thousand beeswax candles in silver sconces, and seems to be made all of a single sheet of shimmering gold and jewels and silver melted together to crown Rodrigo Borgia's head. He sat down a cardinal, and now he rises a pope, the Bishop of Rome, not least. His robes are white and stitched with silver and gold thread, sapphires and gems studded about his chest, his feet appear just through the folds of the robes, slippered in the finest leather dyed crimson, the soles scuffed beyond repair by just one day of walking. His fingers are stripped for once of all his worldly rings; he wears only the heavy papal ring of gold on the third finger of his right hand. Above the white splendour of his garb, his face is still and serious, sun-browned and healthy compared to the swamp of pale cardinals about and before him.

"What will his family call him now?" whispers Lucrezia into her brother's ear.

"Holy Father," replies Cesare, watching with absent interest the flames flicker shadows onto his sister's own little crown: one of pearls and silver lace that drapes the back of her head. He winds a skein of her golden hair absently by her hip next to his, until it shines bright as a ring about his finger.

"Holy Father." Lucrezia smiles. "That's easy . . . even I can remember that."

More words are said, soft intones of Latin that hang heavy as the smoke of incense smouldering amongst the pews. Lucrezia's hand creeps into Cesare's and they both gaze up at their father on the dais. She leans her head in again.

"And tell me, dear brother – "

"_What_, sis?" asks Cesare, impatiently, but he is grinning.

She narrows her eyes at him teasingly. "What must I call myself?" she whispers, still teasing. "Holy daughter?"

"You are still Lucrezia Borgia, my love," he replies, his smile smaller. "You'll only change your name when you marry." He whispers the last word, as if it hurts him.

"And when will I marry?" Her voice is thready with fear.

"Well . . . _never_, if I can help it." He stares straight ahead, but his hand clutches at hers a little tighter, and his thumb smoothes her skin.

She laughs quietly. "Surely it is good to marry, Cesare."

He turns his head at that as she now looks straight ahead, and he dips his lips to her ear to whisper quietly. He tightens his grip on her hand again, and spins the skein of hair about his other fingers.

"As the Pope's daughter, you will have every prince of Europe vying for your hand," he whispers. When still she does not turn, he grasps her chin and pulls her gently round till he is staring into her blue eyes. "They may care very little for your heart."

At that her eyes lose their glitter of laughter. "Perhaps I should do as you have done, brother," she murmurs. "Take holy orders, give my heart to God."

"That might be the safer option, my love." He smooths his thumb across her knuckles again, and draws her hand up to his mouth, rubbing it over his chin and then pressing it to his lips. "But not the right one for a girl as beautiful as you." Her eyes light on his as his lips travel along her knuckles.

"What is right, Cesare?" she whispers, watching now as her fingers glide between his lips. "To sell me as you would cattle?" As he makes to speak, she hushes him with her eyes. "I know my duty, dear brother. I was the beloved daughter of Rodrigo Borgia, and now I am the pretty way of obtaining Pope Alexander's favour." His dark eyes are bottomless pools as she says, "I know that."

Ж


	5. A Betrothal

Ж

Hours pass and night falls, and with the darkening of the sky comes the dawn of music, the bright sunsets of silken gowns and plush slippers, and the deepest strains of lusts and desires surfacing after being so heavily restrained in the sunlit hours of court. Cesare is a stark figure amongst the whirls and wisps of coloured silks about him. His doublet is black velvet with crimson slashings on the chest and arms, studded with rubies, his hose black; colours of blood and death. His unruly dark hair curls about his handsome face, and his eyes are ever more luminous above his soft black beard. He feels the eyes of half a hundred noble ladies in the dresses of whores fall upon him.

"Giovanni Sforza," says Pope Alexander beside him on the dais. "He's over there, the back of the hall. Looks like an ass, and brays like one too." His father coughs. "Well, his cousin does, but it's his cousin we need, except the bastard's married so we have to pick the older one. A shame, but necessary." He nods, as if finalising his own thoughts.

Cesare looks up, and spots Sforza in an instant. Middle-aged, tall, his figure running more to fat than muscle, a cruel mouth, black stringy hair and blood-shot green eyes, dressed elegantly enough but with a look to him that makes Cesare shift uncomfortably in his delicate gold-edged throne beside his father's grander chair. He watches as Sforza picks up a goblet, raises his fist to his mouth and drains it, before mopping a trail of escaped wine from his bearded chin.

"What of him?" asks Cesare, although he suddenly knows at once.

"Lucrezia's betrothed," replies his father, drinking from his own glass. "We brokered the deal last eve, they're to be married in the summer."

"You'd wed our Crezia to a petty _duke_?" fires Cesare, before he can stop himself. "As your daughter she deserves no less than a prince!"

"A prince of _where_, Cesare?" snaps the Pope, his voice venomous but quiet. "You know as we speak our enemies move against us. Naples, France . . . they're allying now, I can tell. My whisperers pour more poison in my ear every day."

"What will Pesaro buy us?"

"One secure kingdom for my grandchildren to inherit." His eyes are bright grey and sparkling in the wine-heavy candlelight. "A place for Lucrezia to flourish away from court, away from her mother, and away from you."

At this Cesare's head snaps up and he glares at his father. "From me?"

"Don't pout at me, Cesare, I know your heart," warns his father. "Lucrezia is all your mother is, and more." His hands move now as he speaks, clutching at the air one minute and fanning it the next with ringed fingers. "She is beautiful, beguiling, a woman grown with the figure and the wits to match. All the men at court go weak at the knees for her, stiff-bearded cardinals turn to water when she smiles, I've seen it." He looks to his son now and his eyes are kindlier. "You are not immune to her charms, you her brother, you most of all."

"What are you saying?" he asks, with suspicion in his gaze.

Rodrigo rests his hand on his son's head of midnight curls. "You seek to protect her, and save her from all the wiles and pitfalls of the court of Rome. But it is more than that. You love her, Cesare, more than anyone."

"She is my sister, Holy Father," he says evenly. "I love her with a passion other men do not have. She is my blood, as you are, and I protect my family."

"By protecting her you ruin her, Cesare," says his father sharply. "She needs to know who is good and who is bad. Who will help, and who will ruin. She _must_ know, in order to survive. You are a man of the church, Cesare, you will not be here beside her forever. She won't be beside you either, she's off to Pesaro in the summer, and you can't be with her on her wedding night to make sure Sforza treats her gently any more than you can watch them day and night in his house." He flicks his wrist to dismiss his son, with the words, "If you truly want to protect her, you must let her go."

He finds her giggling with some girls in the corner of the hall, pretty ringlets and painted lips laughing behind frantic feathered fans as they chuckle at the men before them. They stop as they watch the lean figure of Cesare Borgia making his way toward them, and their fans flutter anew as they observe his muscular chest, his arms straining against the velvet, and his face strong and handsome and brown from the sun. Only his sister steps forward from her fan and smiles at him.

"Sister." He holds his hand out as she curtseys, her crimson skirts spilling out onto the gleaming floors like blood.

"Brother." She takes his hand and follows him to the crowd of dancers. Soon they are swept up in a stately dance, slow and steady, with measured steps and many turns. His hand comes to rest easily on her laced waist, whilst the other touches along the length of her palm held delicately between their chests as they bob and weave gracefully. "My friends are in quite a frenzy," she whispers to him as they turn.

He smiles, and looks over his shoulder to see the hastily-averting eyes of Lucrezia's ladies in their cloud of gowns and fans. He leans down to her ear. "Mayhaps their husbands are not . . . _satisfying_ them."

Her eyes glow up at his. "Oh, Cesare, you sound exactly like our dear Juan." Her gaze skims sideways mischievously and light on their brother who is meandering about the dancefloor, plushly-dressed as always in lurid silks and velvets, a lady draped on either arm, his lips busy at one's ear. Younger than Cesare but nearly as handsome, in an arrogant, self-assured way. "Though I wonder if he is as capable of . . . satisfying other men's wives as he says he is."

Cesare snorts at that. "Oh sister, when one visits only brothels, one only knows how to service whores." He dips his lips to her ear again. "Though, oft it is the other way around." He watches as Juan leaves the hall with his ladies and raises his eyebrows.

"Poor, poor Cesare," says Lucrezia, cupping his cheek in her palm. "Married to the cloth, to God, and destined to sleep always in a cold, empty bed."

She laughs at him then, and Cesare laughs too, and catches her hard in his arms, spinning her across the floor. He looks down at her as they twirl through the swathes of dancers, and smiles anew at her beauty so fresh and awake this night; her pale, soft skin, her perfect face and sapphire eyes, pink lips and white teeth so bright in laughter. He catches a skein of her golden hair and rubs it between his fingers and breathes deep that scent of her that lingers at her neck, of flowers and powder and heady smell of Crezia and Crezia alone. _If you truly want to protect her, you must let her go_. His father's words hound his mind, but he looks down at his sister and knows he can never let her live without him.

Ж


	6. Garden of Tears

Ж

Beneath her feet, the pale flagstones finally begin to grow warm as the sun rises in the east and casts pink light and shadow across the papal gardens. All morning Lucrezia has wandered the gardens, touched flowers damp with dawn-lit dew, listened to the clamour of the city rise around her and to the jolting toll of bells ringing the hour. Now she seats herself at a stone bench and watches silently as all around the servants begin their days, the washerwomen clutching their half-laden baskets, the pageboys and squires and scribes. From the chapel she hears soft Latin words begin to rise, followed by the highest tones the choirboys can keen. _Rome has awakened_, she thinks quietly, _and with its dawning it does away with dreams_.

"You should not be out your bed, sis," comes a voice she recognises in a heartbeat. She feels her own heart rise with half-forgotten joy, but she does not turn.

"Surely it is good for a wife to rise before the dawn," she says, her voice a fraction from a whisper but she feels the smile slip from his face.

There is perfect silence between them for a stretch that feels like an eternity. Around them, the noise and bustle continues, grows louder and more intense. As Cesare comes to sit beside her on the stone bench, she rises from it and walks two steps to stand beside the roses.

"See how full in bloom they are, dear brother?" she says, her eyes fixated on the ripe red petals, her fingers travelling along the bobbing heads. "Things in bloom must always be plucked, mustn't they, Cesare?" Her hand closes on one of the roses, and she feels the velvet crush beneath her palm.

"He told you," is all Cesare says, his voice flat and toneless.

"Yes," she replies, turning at last to look at him with tears blurring her eyes. "He summoned me last night, told me of my fate." Her voice tails off to a choked sob. Her brother makes to rise but she waves her hand at him. "I am to marry Giovanni Sforza, our Holy Father has decreed it, and I must obey."

"Yes – " begins Cesare.

" – I must," finishes Lucrezia, but her eyes rise up and bleed into his and suddenly her face changes. "By God, it is all so terribly unfair. Both you and Juan cavort about bedding whoever you please – and could take any woman you wished to wed. I've seen you press another man's wife against the walls of the city when you think you have no eyes watching you. Even our gracious father sleeps and lives with ladies of the night in God's own house!" Her lips tremble terribly, her nostrils flare, her eyes are huge and blue. "And I must bow to the will of the pope and join hands with an old, cruel man because that it what my family wills? I must be pressed down – " At this she sees the alarm in Cesare's eyes and drops her voice. "I must be pressed down every night by a stranger who I detest, forced to bear his children and tend his house." Tears rake her cheeks. "I am thirteen, brother, thirteen years of age and have already been given such a miserable lot in life."

He sits there in silence and stares at the ground beneath her feet. She strides over to him as calmly as she can manage, her skirts a quaking storm about her hips. Her hand reaches out to grasp his chin and she heaves his face up, lifts his eyes from the stone floor to meet with her own.

"Will you say _nothing_?" she whispers, disbelief and rage filling her voice. "Will you say nothing at all, my dear Cesare?"

She drops his chin as if his skin burns her fingers, turns on her heel and rushes in a storm of threatening tears toward the door leading to the Borgia chambers. She hears his footsteps behind her, but she pushes past the serving-girls blocking her path and flees through the heavy doors.

"Lucrezia," he says, slipping through a moment after her and pushing the doors closed. "Lucrezia, there is nothing I – " He falls silent as he watches her fists clenching, her shoulders shaking.

"Papa would have me marry an old man." Her eyes are shining with tears, and the pearls tremble at her throat. She raises those damp eyes from the ground now and meets him with an accusing stare. "And my dear Cesare will stand there and let it happen." Her lips harden into a thin line, full but devoid of their rosiness, and she gives an angry shuddering breath. "My sweet brother, who would protect me from the world, now ignores my pleas in my saddest hour." She spins from him and makes for the stairs.

"Lucrezia!" he cries, thundering up the stone steps behind her. She takes them two at a time, bounding upward, her thick skirts trailing behind her in swirls of bruised violet. He grasps a handful of silk once, twice, but each time she takes a twist in the spiralling staircase, and the fine cloth slips through his fingers. "Crezia!" he implores as she tears through the grandly carved doors into her chamber. "Sis, please!" The doors shut but he puts his boot swiftly in the way and shoulders them until he hears her cry again and the doors shudder. He bangs into her chamber and slams the doors shut behind him. "Lucrezia."

"What?" she snaps, trembling with anger before him. Her pale face is flushed with fury, her lips parted now, her golden curls awry about her face, the plait half-undone trailing her hips, and her breasts heaving rises above the stiff neckline of her bodice. "What other poisons have you come to pour into my ear?" She takes a step toward him, fists clenched. "Do you speak with Papa's voice now?" He grabs her wrist at that, wrenching her to him. "And with Ursula's tongue still thrust down your throat?" She cries out as he shakes her hard.

"I'm not Papa," he spits, "But I _am_ your brother, Lucrezia, and you'll talk to me as such."

"You won't be my master soon," she seethes.

Her hand sings against his cheek. His head reels back from the blow, but suddenly his arms are tight around her, holding her to him. She buries her face in the familiar warmth of his chest and sobs. His hands run through her hair and down her back a thousand times, and he feels anger course through his veins as he listens to her cries and knows it is only their own father who is to blame.

"Oh, my love," he whispers into her ear.

"I am so afraid, Cesare," she murmurs, looking up finally from her storm of tears.

"Afraid of what, my love?" he says.

"Of marriage . . . of _him_." Her eyes search his, her hands gently trace the jewels at the collar of his doublet. "What . . . what if my husband proves ungallant?"

His eyes darken then, and she feels a thrill of fear rush along her spine as he dips his head close, his forehead coming soon to rest against hers.

"I shall cut his heart out with a dinner knife," he whispers, his jaw tight. "And serve it to you."

Ж


	7. Borgia Blood

Ж

"Lucrezia," whispers her mother, all the life gone from her eyes today. "Lucrezia Borgia." She combs the golden hair, catches it, twists it into plaits and sets in artfully about her head, secures it by golden clasps and diamond pins. "Lucrezia... Sforza."

At this, Lucrezia feels her heart sink and she starts up from the stool.

"No," she murmurs, her lips barely moving. She turns to face her mother, drinking deep those black eyes. "I will always be a Borgia, won't I? Lucrezia Borgia. Not Sforza. Not that." Her voice is strong for a moment but then her lips tremble and tears prick her eyes and she rushes into her mother's embrace, sobbing like an errant child.

"Oh, my sweet girl," whispers Vannozza, her voice awash with her own grief. "Oh, my sweet, honeyed girl." Tears begin in her own eyes now. "You are supposed to be happy. It is your wedding day."

"How can I be happy when it means leaving all I love behind?" she says into the shoulder of her mother's gown. "You and Papa . . . and Cesare."

"You must be a strong girl now, Crezia," whispers her mother. "The strong girl I've always taught you to be." She draws Lucrezia back from her arms and looks her child in the eyes. "This is your fairytale, Lucrezia. He is your prince, and he will marry you this day, and dance with you this eve . . . and carry you away to a beautiful castle in the morrow."

Lucrezia's eyes are huge, shining with fear and sadness, but she smiles. _The dear, sweet girl smiles_.

"It is my fairytale," repeats Lucrezia, her voice happier, but in her eyes the fear still dances. "And it is for my Borgia blood."

"Ah, of course," says her mother, the smile small that graces her lips. "Always for your Borgia blood."

Lucrezia sits back upon her stool, playing with the folds of her chemise with her ringed fingers. Her head feels heavy with all her hair bound atop it and as she raises her gaze to look into her mother's eyes in the mirror her neck begins to hurt and starts to mirror the throb of her heart.

"And you will be there on this happiest of days," says Lucrezia, her voice dropping back to a whisper. "You and Papa will see me walk down the aisle of St Peter's."

At this, Vannozza lets out a sudden sob, half-muffled behind her hand.

"What?" questions Lucrezia, searching her mother's face with worry. "What is it that makes you cry so?" She starts up from her stool again but Vannozza's hands suddenly come down upon her shoulders and press her down. In silence, her mother resumes the patient dressing of her hair. "Are you not happy to see your only daughter married?" Lucrezia's voice is uncertain and lost, tremulous as the parting clouds rushing across the dawn-lit sky outside.

Vannozza breathes deeply. "I am happy to see you married," she says finally. "The happiest." She smiles widely. "And when you walk along the aisle of St Peter's in your gown of gold and with your pretty hair, I will be the proudest mother in all of Italy . . . but I shall not see it."

Lucrezia's smile falls. "What do you mean you shall not see it?"

"When you are married, my love, I shall be tending the doves of my cote and throwing birdseed to the skies." Her voice remains even and light, but her hands begin to shake as she continues to stab the diamond pins into the golden tresses.

"You . . . you will not be at my wedding?" asks Lucrezia, her voice small and incredulous. "But you are my mother! You _must_ be there, you_ have_ to be there." Tears rake her cheeks. "I _need_ you there, Mama, more than any of the others."

"The pope has decreed it, my love," murmurs Vannozza, her voice rising high as she controls her tears. "And it is the pope I must obey. He would hate for my reputation to taint the power of display and dilute the potency of Borgia blood."

"He would deny you because of your past?" repeats Lucrezia angrily. "Without you he would have no Borgia blood to marry off!" She means to sound wilful and strong, but her voice betrays her and her shoulders soon shake beneath her sobs. _Where is Cesare for comfort when I need him?_

"Hush, my Crezia," whispers her mother. "Do not worry yourself so." She smooths the tendrils of hair loose either side of Lucrezia's face. "It is a man's world we live in, and a man will do what he will, not what he must. He will barter and sell, trade and steal. And in his eyes, we women remain only the currency that binds the great men of Rome and Italy together." She kisses the top of Lucrezia's feathery head of hair. "We know differently, you and I, of course we do. But we must endure, my love. We must endure these plots of men and marriage and survive. And you must do it now for your – "

"For my Borgia blood," answers Lucrezia, her tears drying angrily on her cheeks. "For my scheming, sorry Borgia blood."

Ж


End file.
